100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 681: Chapter 680 - Helena Gave Birth Finally

She looked at her pregnant belly. At the child inside. At the vine-rose bed beneath her. At her spread pussy — the lips parted, the pink flesh glistening, the hairy mound visible. She was ready. Her body was ready. The pregnancy was full-term — the child was ready.

She leaned forward. Her hands found his shoulders. She pulled herself toward him. Her lips found his ear. She kissed it. Then sucked. The ’I-am-yours’ suction of a woman preparing herself.

"Please," she whispered.

He climbed. Onto the rose bed. The vines and petals shifted — accommodating his weight, the nature magic adjusting. The bed was large enough. Firm enough. The roses — dark red, fragrant — fell from their bodies as they settled. The petals scattered. The scent — floral, sweet, the natural perfume of a thousand roses — filled the air.

Helena reclined. Her back against the mirror. Her pregnant belly rising. Her legs — the vines tying them, spreading them — open. Her pussy — the hairy, swollen, ready cunt — presented.

Viktor leaned down. His mouth found her tit. The left one — the larger one, the milk heavier. He latched. Sucked.

’Gulp. Gulp.’

The milk came. Warm. Sweet. Thin. The 100x Celestial Chef buff — arousal enhancement, stamina recovery — hit his system immediately. His cock stirred. The shaft — softening, exhausted — filled. The blood returned. The tissue engorged. Nine inches. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

The cock pressed against her pussy entrance. The head — the thick, crimson, milk-slicked head — found her lips. Parted them. The hairy mound — unshaved, natural, the dark curls framing the pink flesh — pushed aside. The entrance — the swollen, pregnant, ready entrance — yielded.

It stretched.

Slowly. The head pushing. The lips parting. The canal — already wet, already prepared by the earlier fucking — accepting. The walls gripped. The friction — wet, hot, the ’she-is-ready’ sensation of a body that had been waiting — was perfect.

His eyes found hers.

"It will hurt," he said. His voice was quiet. Gentle. The ’I-am-telling-you-the-truth’ tone of a man who respected the woman beneath him.

Helena’s tears fell. Not from sadness. From the ’I-know-and-I-want-it-anyway’ emotion that came from loving someone enough to let them break you.

"Please be hard on me, darling," she whispered.

Viktor sighed. His forehead dropped. Against hers. The contact — skin to skin, breath to breath — was intimate. The most intimate thing they had done all night.

"Why are you talking like that to me?" he asked. His voice was soft. The ’I-don’t-want-you-to-perform’ tone of a man who wanted the real woman, not the act.

Helena’s lip trembled. "Young Master, I just — I just thought you liked it—"

His hand found her tit. He held it. Not groped. Not squeezed. Held. The way a man holds something precious. The milk — the warm, sweet, buff-carrying milk — leaked against his palm.

"We don’t need to act like anyone," he said. His voice was low. Private. The voice she remembered from the days when he was a boy and she was his nanny and the world was simple. "You are my favorite, Nanny."

The word — ’Nanny’ — hit her. The title. The old title. The one that meant ’you raised me’ and ’you are mine’ and ’you were the first’ all at once. Her eyes widened. Her breath caught. Her pussy clenched — the walls squeezing his cockhead, the involuntary ’I-love-you’ response of a body that recognized its owner.

He slammed.

PAAAH—!!

"AAAAAAHH—!!!♡♡♡!!!"

Twelve inches. One thrust. The cock drove through her canal — past the walls, past the G-spot, past the curve — and into her cervix. The barrier — the tight, muscular ring — was hit. Not the slow, increasing pressure of before. The full, ’I-am-not-waiting’ force of a man who had decided.

Her cervix stretched.

The muscle — already softened by pregnancy, already thinning in preparation for birth — yielded faster than Mira’s. The ring opened. The cockhead pushed through. Into her womb.

Her eyes rolled.

"AAAHH—!!♡♡♡!!"

The gasp — the ’he-is-in-my-womb’ gasp — was sharp. Short. The air driven from her lungs by the penetration. Her back arched. Her pregnant belly thrust upward. Her hands — her maternal hands — found his back. Clawed. The nails dug in.

He pulled out. Eight inches. Then slammed again.

PAAAH—!!

"AAAAHH—!!!♡♡♡♡♡!!!"

The rhythm started. Not the machine-gun pace. Not the brutal, ’I-am-destroying-you’ speed. Hard. Deep. Deliberate. Each thrust a full-length stroke — twelve inches in, twelve inches out — at a pace that allowed her to feel every inch. Every ridge. Every vein. Every millimeter of the cock that was fucking her womb.

PAH. PAH. PAAH.

"AAAAAH—!!♡♡!! IT HURTS—!!♡♡!! HUSBAND—!!♡♡♡!! YOUNG MASTER—!!♡♡♡!!"

Her pregnant belly moved. The thick, taut skin — stretched over the child within — rippled with each impact. The child shifted. The kicks — the small, internal ’what-is-happening’ movements of a baby whose home was being disturbed — intensified.

"AAANGH—!!♡♡♡!! SLOW — PLEASE—!!♡♡♡!!"

He pulled out. Full withdrawal. The cock emerged — the head dragging past her cervix, past her walls, past her lips. The empty, ’where-did-it-go’ vacuum hit her body. Her cunt spasmed. Her cervix — open, broken, the muscle ring torn — gaped.

His balls kissed her ass. The sac — heavy, full, the cum sloshing — pressed against her anus. The contact — the ’I-am-about-to’ touch — was the signal.

The baby came.

Not slowly. Not gradually. The child — pushed by the contractions that the cervix break had triggered, accelerated by the 100x Genesis Saint Authority’s healing resonance that made the birth canal elastic and painless — emerged. The head crowned. The shoulders rotated. The body slid.

Her back arched. Her mouth opened. The scream — not pain, the 100x easy-birth ability that Viktor had pre-loaded into her body converting the pain to pleasure — was the ’AAAAHH-♡♡♡’ sound of a woman giving birth through orgasm.

"AAAAAAHH—!!!♡♡♡♡♡!!!"

The baby was thrown. The contractions — the powerful, uterine-wall contractions that expelled the child — launched the infant outward. The small, wet, pink body slid from her cunt, caught by the vines — the nature magic responding instantly, cradling the newborn in a bed of soft petals.

The baby cried.

"WAAAAAH—! WAAAAH—!"

Helena’s eyes — rolled, glazed — found the child. The maternal instinct — the deepest, most primal, most ’this-is-what-I-am’ instinct — surged. But her body was still in the aftershock.

The birth-orgasm had left her limp. Her arms fell.

Her legs — still tied by vines — trembled.

Viktor moved.

He lifted his leg. Over her. His knee found the rose bed, beside her hip. He climbed. Over her body. Over her pregnant — now deflated, post-birth — belly. Over her tits. His cock — still twelve inches, still hard, the endless stamina and the milk buff keeping him erect — hung above her face.

He placed his cock between her cleavage.

The heavy, milk-swollen mounds — enormous, the pale skin covered in blue veins, the dark nipples still leaking — sandwiched his shaft. The warmth. The softness. The ’I-am-your-nanny-and-your-wife-and-the-mother-of-your-child’ flesh closed around him.

"Come on," he said. Looking down at her. "Please me."

Her tears — the birth tears, the pain tears, the ’I-just-gave-life’ tears — were still falling. Her brown eyes — half-open, exhausted — found his face. Then his cock. The head — the crimson, swollen, cum-and-milk-slicked head — was inches from her mouth.

She pressed her tits together. Her hands — trembling, weak — found her own mounds. She squeezed. The flesh compressed around his shaft. The milk — the warm, sweet, buff-carrying milk — sprayed from the pressure. It hit his cock. His stomach. His thighs.

He started to thrust.

Pah. Pah. Pah.